The Voice Inside

Two paths beckon me home,

but I always choose to turn left.

A preference formed by a voice in my head,

that tells me I will be safe.

Years pass, my route unchanging,

escorted by what? suspicion?

Irrational.

I can see down the road where the other kids go,

a passage that leads to a park.

How unthreatening it seems and my paranoia misplaced,

I quiet the urge to turn away.

Curiosity compels me to walk right,

but instinct tugs me back.

Heal. Toe.

I trudge forward, my body leaden,

slowly shuffling…dragging my feet.

My eyes wander, my focus is uncontrollable,

looking ahead, glancing back, searching.

There is something familiar about the curves of the road,

that leaves me feeling nauseated.

I can’t breathe.

Cringing at every sound,

I shrink beneath my clothes and fold inward on myself.

I hug my stomach with a shaking hand,

I place the other over my heart.

Relax.

After counting to sixty,

I finally uncurl my spine and lift my head.

A swing set.

“Shhh…be a good girl for me.”

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Reflecting, Wondering, Seeking

I stare at my image in the basin’s reflection,
A sacramental pool has never been so muddied,
Reflecting the state of a soul so uneasy.
My gaze strays toward the rood upon which He was sentenced ,
His eyes full of sorrow, but toward whom I’m unsure,
Wondering what true intent lies in His grandeur.
I view the many faces that surround me each week,
Heads buried wherever they can avoid finding light,
Wondering if is this is enough for their life.
I dare to look into the face of my creator,
What do I owe to you? Jubilance or misery?
Do I even know you, stranger conjured from voices?
Do they even know you, he who can be seen no more?
Reflecting, wondering, seeking.

Look at me!

Why was I created?

For amusement?

Was I created out of boredom?

Can you not answer my questions?

Are you too afraid?

Do you think I will hurt you?

Can’t you see all I want are answers?

Isn’t that what everyone wants?

Do you not think I am only human doubting my existence?

Do you want me to end it all?

End you?

End me?

Did you know I could?

Did you know I could end you with a finger?

Are you ashamed?

What have I done to deserve this isolation?

This marginalization?

Is there in truth no beauty?

Is my appearance the deciding factor of my loneliness?

Are all humans so shallow?

Why do you insist on silence, Creator?

Can you not see you are my only god?

Do you want to be my only god?

Is this too much for you to handle?

Look at me!

The Sapling

In the center of the garden

grew a sapling, never after forgotten.

Summers came, and Winters passed,

through many years this tree did last.

Its roots grew deeper and entangled

roots of trees no longer able

to bear fruit of ample sweetness

to attract one’s tongue to witness.

The old trees spread this malady

through their roots to the young sapling.

As those old trees withered down,

the young tree’s branches were abound

with the blossoms that preceded

the growth of apples, unimpeded.

Though the fruits appeared so red,

the inside filled each taster with dread.

There was no sweetness, only a bitter,

toxic, and pernicious flavor.

Worse than the flavor, was the sight

of fruit’s flesh that was black as night.

Though promising this sapling was,

its fruit has broken nature’s laws.

No more seasons came to pass

before the sapling was replaced by grass.

( )

(CON – FUS    ION)                                                                                  (FE  AR)                                       (REPETITION)

  (SEL     F-DOUBT)                                    (ANGER)                 (      VIOLENCE)
(REPETITION)                    ( DARKNESS)

     (    PARANOIA    )                      (GUILT)          (MISTRUST)

           (PAIN)                                 (REPETITION)        (DOUBT)

   (DOUBT)

(DOUBT)

(DOUBT)

   (MONSTER)                  (DEATH)                                        (       FRAGMENTA    TION)

(ALONE)

It Grows

You haunt me, mother.

I saw your corpse, lying there.

Unmoving.

Blood pooling.

Lips blue.

But,

This is not what haunts me.

The ghost that plagues my waking hours,

And stains my brain bright with blood,

Is the mere fact

That you are

Gone.

You

Left

Me.

And you are no longer my mother.

You are a corpse,

Rotting,

In a box,

Skin swollen, eyes sunken.

Your death bore a life in me,

A seed.

It drinks in your thick blood,

Night

And

Day.

And it grows.

And grows.

And it consumed your death

And it consumes my life.

And I am the seed now.

And the seed is made from your absence.

And it haunts me, mother.